


Mekajiki

by evanelric



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Alternate Universe, Cannibalism, Cannibalism Puns, Dehumanization, Dysfunctional Family, Food Metaphors, Implied Relationships, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Nonconsensual Cannibalism, Other, Summer, Sushi, Tanabata, Vore, mention of vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-28
Updated: 2017-09-28
Packaged: 2019-01-06 09:52:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12208845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evanelric/pseuds/evanelric
Summary: “I know that we have had…disagreements…of late, but I think that we should let things be, in honor of the holiday. Tanabata, after all, is a day for wishes.” Sojiro smiles, but there’s no humour in it. “To celebrate, I thought perhaps we should share a meal. It was a favourite dish of my grandfather’s, especially when disagreements such as this rose up. It never failed to make me realise the importance of the clan and my duty to it.”Hanzo hears the trap in the words, feels the noose drawing tighter, but he can’t see anything about the sushi before him that could inspire such feelings. His education has been thorough enough that he recognizes swordfish when he sees it, despite the relative rarity of it being served as tane, and as the only human offspring Sojiro has it would be less than prudent to poison him fatally.





	Mekajiki

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bonebo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bonebo/gifts).



> _"you know what sounds cute?" bonebo said. "a mermada rolled up like sushi."_
> 
> this is not quite that, but still tickles their fancy, so mission accomplished, imo. Un-betaed, oops.

Spring has officially come and gone, but the grounds of Shimada Castle are still awash with pink-tinted light as the sun filters through multitudes of cherry blossoms. A few stray petals dance on the breeze, skittering back and forth until they come to a rest on the porch outside the doors to Sojiro’s personal study, where he and Hanzo kneel regarding the blossoms, no less formal than they would be had the entire council of elders been present. The air is rich with the scents of tatami and wood polish, and a solemn crack punctuates the silence as a sōzu begins filling with water once more. The cicadas drone on, as unperturbed by the sound as the kumicho and his heir as they sip cold tea to counter the oppressive heat of summer.

Nearly soundlessly, footsteps approach from the hallway and the door to the study slides open, and a servant places a tray on the floor between the two men, then retreats just as silently. Hanzo eyes the tray from the corner of his eye, but doesn’t acknowledge it until his father has placed his cup beside it and turned to study its contents with a pleased light in his gaze.

The smile doesn’t go farther than the creases of his eyes, but Hanzo is on guard nonetheless. Nothing he’s done or said lately has pleased Sojiro, and anything the older Shimada has to share with Hanzo shouldn’t be met with such glee unless it will in some way reciprocate that displeasure.

Between them are two plates, each holding a pair of nigiri sushi topped with almost translucently pale flesh. Sojiro preens as he looks at them, the delicate tracery of fat outlining the whorls of muscle and the complete lack of discoloration. The kumicho looks up, wordlessly demanding eye contact, and Hanzo sets his own cup down and braces himself as best he can for whatever his father is planning.

“I know that we have had… _disagreements…_ of late, but I think that we should let things be, in honor of the holiday. Tanabata, after all, is a day for wishes.” Sojiro smiles, but there’s no humour in it. “To celebrate, I thought perhaps we should share a meal. It was a favourite dish of my grandfather’s, especially when disagreements such as this rose up. It never failed to make me realise the importance of the clan and my duty to it.”

Hanzo hears the trap in the words, feels the noose drawing tighter, but he can’t see anything about the sushi before him that could inspire such feelings. His education has been thorough enough that he recognizes swordfish when he sees it, despite the relative rarity of it being served as tane, and as the only human offspring Sojiro has it would be less than prudent to poison him fatally.

There is the possibility that it might only be a debilitating poison, but Hanzo has endured those before, and doubtless will again. Even those are used more as a necessity of training in his father’s eye, rather than a time-honored method of coercion. Perhaps the catch is in a later dish, and Sojiro is merely uncharacteristically enthusiastic for the inevitable reveal.

With this much loss of composure, however, Hanzo is relatively certain that whatever it is will be far too obvious to miss. The sōzu clacks again, and a muscle above Hanzo’s left eye twitches. Sojiro remains unaffected, sedately lifting a piece of sushi off his plate and to his mouth. Hanzo follows a half beat behind, deftly inverting the sushi to place the meat against his tongue.

True to its appearance, the swordfish is amazingly fresh and expertly prepared, the rice vinegared precisely enough to highlight and accent the taste of the meat without overwhelming it. It’s moist and firm, with a touch of sweetness that contrasts nicely against the rice, with a texture almost reminiscent of beef, and only a hint of fish in the flavour.

Hanzo hasn’t had cause to have swordfish nigiri often, but despite that this is far and away one of the best pieces he’s had. He takes his time to chew and enjoy the flavors as the meat breaks down and warms in his mouth, and delays just enough to appear unmoved before he takes the second piece as well.

As he chews he finds himself already regretting that there were only two pieces of nigiri and nothing to have prolonged the experience. He would gladly have eaten a few pieces of anything else, if only to know that he still had a piece of swordfish remaining. Although perhaps that’s part of the lure, he realizes. Nothing that follows this will compare, and if it's accompanied by a lecture about duty and privilege then perhaps Hanzo could see a young Sojiro bending to the kumicho of his time.

His father has always been strict with him, and Hanzo is hard-pressed to imagine there was anything Sojiro wanted that truly clashed with the interests of the clan. Certainly nothing as vulgar as acknowledging half-breeds as people. If Sojiro were at all interested in such a thing they wouldn’t be having this conversation, or any of the “disagreements” they’ve had in the weeks and months prior.

Sojiro, for his part, looks inordinately pleased with himself, and the swordfish that had tasted so pleasant on his tongue begins to feel like lead in Hanzo’s belly. “Nothing to begin a good discussion like good food, hm? This was a special catch, you see. Swordfish is notoriously hard to get here, as they tend to prefer warmer waters. This one, however, was caught locally, and I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to remind you of the valuable opportunities you are afforded as my heir.”

At some signal unknown to Hanzo, although he wouldn’t have put it past Sojiro to have given the staff a verbal cue, the door slides open once more, and a large cart covered by a cloth is rolled in, appearing only as a white blur in his peripheral vision. Sojiro pays it no mind, so Hanzo is forced to do the same, trying to glean the lesson from his father’s words before the kumicho can have the satisfaction of catching him off-guard.

“Most families don’t have the resources to acquire such delicacies, and of those, fewer still have the skills required to take advantage of such occasions when they present themselves. The Shimada, thanks to centuries of discipline and adherence to tradition even in the face of the changing times, have both.”

Sojiro’s smile now is sharp, and Hanzo feels a prickle of sweat on the back of his neck that has nothing to do with the temperature. The droning of the cicadas, instead of being a pleasant background noise, becomes grating and harsh, and what little breeze there was to bat around the falling petals seems to have fallen still, as if it, too, is hanging on Sojiro’s words. The cart looms in the corner of Hanzo’s eye, still and unmoving, but looking away now will be a victory he’s not willing to grant his father.

“We do things the way we do, my son, for a simple reason: this is how the clan survives. You know the survival of the clan is more important than the survival of any individual member and the nail that sticks out gets hammered down, one way or another, no matter where that nail may be.

“I, too, had my little rebellions in my youth, and with my grandfather's guidance I was still able to become the man I am today and lead the clan well in the decade since his passing. I hold a similar hope that one day you will learn the same lesson I did and lead the clan as well as Grandfather did, and as well as his father before him.”

With this, Sojiro turns toward the cart, and while before it had pulled Hanzo's attention like a magnet just too far to unavoidably attract his gaze, now it feels like every muscle in his neck has frozen, as if the bones of his skull have fused with his spine and everything has rusted in place. The sōzu hits the stone with a sharp crack, cutting through the cicadas and replacing them with the low buzz of white noise as Hanzo's vision narrows to the sheet hanging in front of him.

Looking now, he can tell it's on some sort of framework, suspending it over whatever the cart holds to conceal even the outline. Sojiro must nod or gesture, because in unison the cloth and framework are lifted off to reveal a seafoam green fin, leading up to a brilliant green tail covered in more delicate fins. A small sound cuts through the static and Hanzo’s eyes dart up, following the curve of the scales as it dips and fades into pale skin, past the bound arms that shift to scales and webbed claws, over the pale shoulders bisected with a brilliant fin to the last face he wanted to see in his father’s study.

Genji’s pupils are glassy and dilated from the sedatives they must have injected him with; there’s no way a few ropes around his arms would keep him still now, even if they’d used more restraints before this little display. Even so, there are dried tear tracks running across his face- more than would be warranted by a mere loss of pride at having been captured, and Hanzo can’t help leaping to his feet to check the mer over for injuries.

Aside from the bruises and scrapes that are doubtless the result of his capture, there’s a neat little rectangle cut into the flesh of Genji’s tail, covered in a thin layer of clingwrap, revealing the same pale white meat that had just graced Hanzo’s plate and palate. Sojiro must have stood as well, because he leans much too close into Hanzo’s space to speak directly into his ear, drowning out even the static with his smug tone.

“You see, Hanzo, we are better than they are, and always have been, and always will be, and any time you forget this fact I will be happy to remind you of it, just as my grandfather did for me.” The kumicho straightens and walks over to Genji, tilting his head to look at the face of the creature who has become his best leverage over his son for the time being. “I see why you chose this one, at least. It bears a striking resemblance to the one that bore it.” The kumicho straightens, the twin dragons embroidered on his back catching the light just as effectively as Genji’s scales as he calmly makes his way to the door. “Have your fun now if you must, but remember- we are Shimada, and they are merely animals.”

Hanzo barely makes it to the porch before he empties his stomach.


End file.
